Palo Alto
by annonwrite
Summary: Dean is sick and Sam is hurting. They both find a little healing in Palo Alto. Part 2/3
1. Chapter 1

A long, winding trail brought them here. Sam can't really remember when the westward shift started, but they've been on that course ever since. A poltergeist in Denver. A demon somewhere near the four corners. A haunting in Nevada that ended up being a bust. It all brought them here to California, where they're hoping this case will work out better than the last.

It's strange being back in the place that he once called home. It's like being back in Kansas, only different at the same time. The highways leading to the coast looked familiar for a while, but once they veered towards San Francisco instead of Palo Alto, the road could have been any stretch of pavement in almost any state.

It still wasn't enough to keep him from dreaming about Jess that night.

He shot straight up in bed with the image of her burned in the back of his retinas like he'd stared at a lit-up picture of her for too long. He tossed and turned even after the dream had faded away and the adrenaline had left his body. Dean had been sniffling and sneezing for the past four or five states, blaming it on allergies even when they were driving through the middle of desert where there wasn't anything alive to be allergic to. That night the cough started, so Sam lay awake listening to Dean's interrupted sleep and trying not to think about anything at all.

The next few nights hadn't been much better. They'd done their research each day but ended up grasping at straws. Their leads fell apart, leaving them nowhere besides the hotel room with the geometric water stain on the ceiling where Dean coughed and Sam dreamed only when he couldn't keep his eyes open a second longer.

Today, Sam is itching for a change. The car is headed toward the police station for another interview with an officer who might have some answers this time around. With the luck they've been having, Sam suspects that he won't. Dean's asleep in the passenger seat, lips parted, a thick string of drool running down his cheek. He doesn't even stir when Sam turns the car around and starts heading south.

Though it's been a while, Sam doesn't need to pull out a map. He takes 280, between the bay and the ocean, surrounded by sun and water and palm trees and all the other things they don't normally see in their Midwestern hunts. Only now he's not thinking about the hunt. He exits towards Emerald Lake Hills, knowing that the name is a perfect description for the town. He's not positive he remembers which roads to take, so he goes by instinct and landmarks. A few minutes later, he's pulling into the driveway that he's been looking for. The Moore's house. Jessica's house.

He slides the car into park and takes his foot off the brake. Next to him, Dean coughs and stirs. Before his eyes are even open, he's wiping the drool from his face. Sam turns the car off but leaves the keys in the ignition.

"Where're we?" Dean mumbles, looking around. His voice is hoarse.

"Quick detour," he answers in lieu of an explanation. The "I want to visit my dead girlfriend's parents" truth doesn't quite roll off the tongue. "You can stay in the car. I won't be long."

It's a testament to just how tired Dean must be that he doesn't complain, just shifts a little and finds a comfortable spot to rest his head. He coughs some more. "Okay." His eyes close. "M'here if you need me."

Sam is out of the car, up the driveway, and ringing the doorbell before he can lose his nerve. With all the things he's seen and fought in his life, this shouldn't be scary at all, but somehow it still is. The curtain covering the window near the door is pulled aside and Sam tries to smile in that direction. Suddenly, he's not sure what to do with his hands. He thinks that he should have something. Flowers, a bottle of wine, something, but it's too late for that now.

The door opens and Sam feels a little off balance when he sees Mrs. Moore at the door. Jessica had her eyes.

"Sam?" Mrs. Moore asks, hesitant, and Sam realizes that he must look different. It's been a while since his last haircut.

"Hello, Mrs. Moore."

"Oh my goodness, Sam," she says, all hesitation gone. She reaches up and pulls him into a tight hug, patting his back and murmuring something that he can't hear because she's saying it directly into his shoulder. "Come in, come in." She takes his hand and pulls him inside, closing the door behind him like he might escape at any moment. "Jerry," she calls, "you better come see who's here."

"Sorry to just drop in like this, but I was in the neighborhood…"

She interrupts before he can finish his explanation. "Nonsense. I'm so happy to see you. How have you been? You look well. Are you doing well?" Mr. Moore walks into the entryway. "Jerry, look who it is. It's Sam."

"Well, I'll be. It is. Hello, Sam. How've you been?" He extends his hand for a firm shake and one-armed hug.

"I'm doing well. How about you two?"

"Oh, we're getting along," Mrs. Moore says. "We've been visiting family near LA. Just got back a few days ago."

Sam nods. "I'm glad I caught you. I've been meaning to call for a while, but I didn't have your number."

"We've been trying to track you down, too," Mr. Moore says. "We have a box for you. We finally got around to going through Jessica's things," he stops to swallow like the words hurt, "and there were some things we thought you might like to have."

"I'd love that," Sam says, touched by the thought that they saved anything for him even though they didn't know if they'd ever see him again. "I'd love to see anything you have."

"What did we do with that box?" Mr. Moore asks his wife as he walks across the hall. "Did we put it in the closet?"

"I can't remember. Maybe the closet. Maybe the attic. I know it's around here somewhere."

Mr. Moore waves them off. "I'll go look for it. You get that boy a drink."

Patting his hand, Mrs. Moore leads him into the kitchen. "It's so good to see you," she repeats. "What can I get you to drink? Coffee? Water? Brunch is in the oven and will be ready soon." She checks the timer over her shoulder as she pours a mug of steaming coffee without waiting for his answer. "There's more than enough food to go around. We'd love it if you joined us."

"Thank you," Sam says, accepting the cup of coffee, letting the mug warm his hands. "Actually, I can't stay. My brother's in the car."

Mrs. Moore's face lights up. "Your brother? I'd love to meet him. Why don't you bring him in, too? There's so much food. I always cook too much."

Sam smiles. He remembers. "That's really very kind of you, but he's sort of under the weather. I don't think he should be around anyone."

Mrs. Moore's face changes to sympathetic and she clucks her tongue. "Poor thing. What's bothering him?"

"Just a cold, I think. He's been coughing and sneezing for a few days now. He'll be all right." Mrs. Moore offers him cream and sugar, but he declines. The strong, bitter yet smooth taste is exactly what he needs. "That's beautiful," he says, nodding to a painting on an easel near the back door. "Did you do that recently?"

She waves him off. "A couple of months ago. It's nothing special. I haven't even had enough free time to finish it."

"You should," Sam says, meaning it. Not that he's any expert, but Mrs. Moore's paintings are some of the best he's seen. He remembers the first time Jess showed her one that she did. He hadn't believed that her mom had created something so impressive until he'd gotten to see her in action. Jess said that if she ever had kids, they would definitely be artistic because it was obvious that the talent had skipped her generation. Sam winces when that memory stings a little bit.

Mrs. Moore takes two potholders out of a drawer and turns to look at the painting. She tips her head to the side a little bit. "I suppose I should. You're right, Sam." The timer on the oven goes off and she winks at him before turning around to silence it.

She pulls two pans out of the oven, and Sam's nose is immediately assaulted with the smell of home-cooking that he hasn't experienced in such a long time. In addition to being an amazing artist, Mrs. Moore is also an incredible cook. He'd put on a pound or two thanks to her when he and Jess were dating.

"Are you sure I can't convince you to stay for a while? I know how much you love a good meal." She pulls four plates out of the cupboard instead of two, followed by four sets of silverware, napkins, and glasses. "Besides, a hotel's no place to get good rest when you're sick. We've got a comfortable guest bedroom. Your brother can have a decent meal and get some decent sleep before you go. We really would like to have both of you."

Sam finds himself leaning a little more towards staying. Not only does the food look and smell delicious, but he thinks Mrs. Moore might just have a point about Dean getting some honest-to-goodness sleep. Sleeping sitting up in a car obviously isn't doing him much good. "All right," he says. "Let me go talk to Dean and see if I can get him to come in."

Mrs. Moore claps her hands together and smiles. "Perfect. Please try to get him to come in." She begins setting four places at the table, as if he's already said yes.

As Sam walks down the sidewalk, he hears her calling out to Mr. Moore, asking if he's found the box yet. He also hears Dean coughing before he even gets the car door open. He hopes his brother won't be stubborn.

There's always hope.

…

"Hey, man," Dean hears through layers of sleep. He feels a nudge to his shoulder.

"Y' okay?" Dean asks, looking dazedly around and finally focusing on Sam's face.

"Yeah, I'm good. Hey, listen, we're at Mr. and Mrs. Moore's house, and they want to know if we want to come in for some food."

Dean doesn't really understand where they are, but it doesn't matter. The thought of getting up and going anywhere is less than appealing. "You go 'head, Sammy," Dean says, wincing as he adjusts himself against the seat. "I'm tired."

"Mrs. Moore said you can go sleep for a little while in their guest bedroom. Wouldn't that be nice? A soft, warm bed? Probably a lot more comfortable than our shitty hotel, and definitely a lot more comfortable than the position you're in right now."

Dean rubs at his eyes, and something clicks in his mind. Moore. Jess. "Mrs. Moore?" he asks.

"Yeah. Jess's parents."

He nods slowly, still trying to fit puzzle pieces together. "What about the officers?"

Sam shrugs. "You and I both know we aren't going to get any more information today. I thought we could use a detour. What do you say? I'm telling you, Mrs. Moore is a great cook, and she really wants to meet you, sick or not."

While getting up is still sounding less than appealing, the idea of a bed is majorly alluring. Dean loves his car, but it is definitely not a good sick bed. Plus, he can tell Sam really wants this. Dean has a definite weak spot for his brother's "dead girlfriend" card, though he doesn't play it often. Never has. Eventually, he nods. "Yeah. Okay. For a little while."

Dean fumbles around and eventually gets the door open. Once he's vertical, he feels like he's standing in quicksand even though he's pretty sure there's cement under his feet.

"You all right?" Sam asks.

"Dizzy," Dean admits.

Sam wraps an arm around Dean's unsteady figure and Dean automatically drapes his own arm over Sam's shoulders. After a few seconds he lets go of the car door. Sam closes it and they start walking towards the front door. Dean desperately tries to pull himself together, knowing that leaning on his brother like a drunk will not make a very good impression. Eventually he's able to remove his arm and shrug out of Sam's grasp. It's a small accomplishment that he manages a few steps on his own, but he'll take it.

The door opens before they have to knock or ring the doorbell. Even through his slightly-clouded vision, Dean can see the resemblance between Jess and her mother. They have the same eyes. He wonders if Sam notices that, and knows that he probably does.

Mrs. Moore smiles in Dean's direction. "You must be Sam's brother. I'm Kathy Moore. It's so nice to meet you."

"Mrs. Moore, this is my brother, Dean," Sam says.

Dean extends his hand to shake hers and tries not to fall over when she pulls him in for a hug instead. "It's good to see you, Dean," she says. When she releases him from the hug, she immediately smoothes her cold hands over his forehead and cheeks like she's known him for five years or five months or a hell of a lot longer than the last five seconds. She makes a "tsk" sound and shakes her head. Dean coughs into his elbow. "That's some fever you're running, honey. Come on. Straight to bed with you. Sam, Mr. Moore's in the kitchen. I'll be there to serve breakfast in a minute."

Dean looks to Sam for help, but he's already on his way to the kitchen. Mrs. Moore takes his hand and leads him down a pristine hallway. Dean thinks he should have taken off his boots and tries to mumble something referring generally to that thought, but Mrs. Moore interrupts him.

"We'll get you some Tylenol for that fever. Maybe some tea. Do you like tea? That's best for a cold, you know. Rest and fluids." She leads him into a room on the left and turns on a soft lamp. Dean stands awkwardly off to the side while she pulls back the covers. When she's finished, she looks at him like she can't quite understand why he's not already tucked into bed. "Go ahead," she says. "We don't do 'shy' around here, honey. Not when you're Sam's brother, and definitely not when you're sick. Now, you get comfortable and I'll go get a few supplies."

Before Dean can even process what she's said, she's out of the room. He sits down, relieved to be done with the challenge of staying vertical. Now, he toes out of his boots. Feeling ever so awkward, he slips between the sheets. The awkward feeling stops there and is replaced by waves of overwhelming relief. The bed is the perfect degree of firmness, the sheets are soft and cool, and the pillow feels like it was made just for him. He quickly decides he's never moving ever again, which is a good thing because when he opens his eyes, the ceiling is spinning. Dean's never been a big fan of fevers.

Mrs. Moore reappears and sits on the edge of the bed so that she's resting against his arm. It takes all of his energy to clear the dizziness and not move away from her touch.

"Open up," she says, practically jabbing him with the thermometer before he can process the request and follow her directions. "Now then, what's bothering you besides the fever?" she asks even though he's clearly not able to answer at the moment. "Sniffling and sneezing? Your nose is awfully red, poor thing. What about your throat? Does that hurt?" Before Dean can shake his head, the thermometer beeps. She takes it out and reads it without breaking stride. "102.6. Poor thing. You must feel awful. Let's see your throat. Open up and say 'ah,'" she directs, using one gentle finger to tip his chin towards the light.

Dean suddenly wonders if she's some sort of witch or if he's possessed, because he obeys, albeit with a creaky, hoarse version of the sound. He's also acutely aware of the fact that he can't remember the last time he brushed his teeth, and his breath is probably on the sharp side of foul. Breathing through his mouth makes him cough, but he manages to turn away before doing that in her face.

Mrs. Moore makes another "tsk" sound. "Very red. Must be quite painful. And that cough. You must have some post-nasal drip irritating your lungs."

At that point, Dean wants to laugh but doesn't have the energy. A near-stranger is poking and prodding him and talking about his post-nasal drip. Ridiculous.

On the nightstand next to the bed are several bottles of medicine and a glass of water. He idly wonders how she made them all appear so fast. Witchcraft, probably. He needs to warn Sammy, but his eyes are heavy and falling shut.

"Honey, I know you're tired, but we need to get some medicine into you first," she says, lifting his head and sticking another pillow behind it before placing a glass of water in his hand.

He's not so sure he'll be able to hold the glass without spilling, but she seems confident enough in his abilities because she lets go. Miraculously, it stays put. He stares at it, feeling like his hand is not part of his body at all.

"This will help with your cough, stuffy nose, and sore throat." She holds a small plastic cup up to his lips, and before he can do anything, the thick cherry liquid is sliding down his throat. "Good. This will help with the fever." This time she puts a cup with three small pills up to his mouth, and sure enough, his hand must still be attached to his body because he manages to chase them down with a sip of water. He fights the grimace when he swallows, the pills like shards of broken glass.

"There now," she says, taking the glass and setting it on the nightstand. She adjusts the pillows so that he's comfortable and tucks the blankets up to his chin. Dean can't remember the last time someone did that for him, and it somehow hurts and is perfect all at the same time. "I'll put some water on to make tea. Can I get you anything else?"

Instead of processing the question, Dean says what he thinks he's been meaning to say since he saw her at the front door. In his creaky voice he says, "I'm sorry. Jess…"

Mrs. Moore gives him a sad smile and adjusts his blankets again. "Thank you, Dean, but there's nothing to be sorry about. You just rest and feel better, okay? And don't worry about your brother, either. We'll take care of Sam."

Witch or not, those are the magic words, and Dean lets himself drift off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you sure you don't want more?" Mrs. Moore asks, already digging the spoon into the casserole dish.

"No, thank you," Sam answers. "Seconds was plenty. It was delicious, though. Thank you again."

As she sets the spoon back down, she beams. "You're welcome. Glad you enjoyed it."

He stretches in his seat, muscles finally loosening up from the driving and lack of sleep over the past week. He's full and warm from his head to his toes for the first time in a while.

"So, it must be nice, having this chance to work with your brother, huh?" Mr. Moore asks.

"Yeah. I didn't see him much while I was away at school, so it's…nice," he says, though that's not the word he wants. He's not sure if that word exists.

"All that traveling must be hard on you, though, right? You look just about done in," Mrs. Moore says.

"Now honey, don't be too kind to the boy," Mr. Moore jokes, and Sam has to smile.

Mrs. Moore waves her hand in nonchalance. "You know what I mean. Between you looking so worn out and Dean being so sick, it seems like you two could use a break. Any chance you'll be heading home soon?"

At the mention of home, he clears his throat. "Yeah, I don't know. Maybe." In an attempt to send the conversation in a different direction, he pushes his chair back. "Let me help clean up."

"Oh, I'll get that," Mrs. Moore says, taking the plate and silverware from his hands. "Jerry, why don't you open that box for Sam. Then you can help me clean up in the kitchen."

Mr. Moore nods, patting Sam on the shoulder before leading him into the living room. "We donated a lot of her things," he says as he takes his keys out of his pocket to use as a makeshift knife. "Some of it seemed like it might be important to you, though, so we decided to hold on to it."

Sam feels nervous, like he did before ringing the doorbell when they arrived. Mr. Moore cuts through part of the tape and opens the rest with two satisfying snaps. He looks inside the box for a moment before smiling sadly up at Sam.

"I'll let you go through it. We'll be in the kitchen if you need anything." He claps Sam on the shoulder again and leaves him alone.

It takes a minute or two before Sam decides to move. With a shaky sigh, he sits stiffly on the leather couch, noticing a framed picture of Jess on the coffee table. It's from her high school graduation. The familiar smile that once made him feel complete now makes him feel broken. He's not sure he's ready for this, but he reaches into the box anyways.

The first thing he pulls out is a stack of pictures. He doesn't recognize the first few. There are flowers, candles, a few people he recognizes from school, a few he doesn't. He realizes that they must have had some kind of memorial on campus. He thinks he should have been there.

Underneath the memorial pictures are a few prints of Jess and Sam together. Jess loved taking pictures, posed and candid, serious and silly, and the photographs bring back memories that sting in both the best and worst kind of way.

He pauses when he uncovers his favorite picture of the two of them. He has another copy of it folded up in one corner of his wallet. That copy is faded almost white along the creases, but this one is perfect. The picture was taken by a friend of theirs at a party. He likes it because it's so obvious that they're in love; that was the night they told each other so.

After a few minutes, he notices his own smile in the picture and understands Mrs. Moore's comments and concern. It's not just the long hair or the weight he's lost. The guy with his arm around Jess looks relaxed, well-rested, and happy. Sam isn't that guy anymore. He hasn't been in a while.

Eventually, the picture starts to blur with unshed tears. He blinks them away hard and sets the picture next to him. The rest of the box contains small mementos from dates they went on, memories they shared, things that feel like they belong to someone else in another lifetime. He fingers a necklace he'd given her not too long before the fire. It catches a bit of sunlight as it twirls between his fingers, and he realizes it still smells like her. He clutches it in his fist like in some small way he's still holding on to her.

A few minutes later, the contents of the box are spread around him, and he feels empty, too.

"Sam?" a soft voice asks from behind him.

He turns to see Mrs. Moore standing just inside the doorway. He wipes at any trace of tears that might have formed.

"Is there anything else you'd like? Anything we missed?"

"No," he says, and has to stop to clear his throat. "No, this is perfect. Thank you."

"You're more than welcome." She doesn't leave, and he doesn't move to put anything back in the box. "She really loved you, you know."

He nods and swallows against the lump that's forming in his throat. "Yeah. I know. I really loved her, too." He hesitates. Against his will, his eyes fill with tears. "I'm…I'm so sorry…about…"

"Oh, Sam," Mrs. Moore says, crossing the room and moving a few pictures aside to sit next to him. "There's nothing to be sorry about. It's not your fault. It was an accident."

He knows she doesn't mean for those words to sting, but they do. He can't stop the tears any longer, so they fall with a broken sob.

"It's okay," she whispers, pulling him in to a hug.

Even with his towering frame, he feels small in her arms, and he's overwhelmed by the feeling of not needing to be strong. He mumbles apologies, she whispers condolences and they cry together.

"I'm so sorry," he chokes out again, lulled by the way she's rocking him back and forth. "If I had been there…"

"It might not have made any difference," she interrupts. "Or you might have been injured, too. Don't you fret about that."

The next part of the apology, the part that he's kept locked up inside but so desperately needs to get out, is on his lips before he can stop himself. "I'm sorry because it's my fault. If I hadn't met her…if we hadn't been… she'd still be alive."

The rocking stops and Mrs. Moore holds him out at arm's length. "Is that what you think?" she asks, disbelief clear on her face and in her voice, and he has to look away. "Oh, Sam, that's just nonsense. It's not your fault. It was an accident. No wonder you look so worn out. That's too much guilt for any one person to carry around." She tips his chin up with one finger. "The only thing you're responsible for is making my daughter happier than she'd been in a long time. That's all. So you take credit for that and don't worry about the rest, okay? You let that other nonsense go."

It's not nonsense, but she won't understand that, so for just a few minutes he chooses to let himself believe that what she says is the truth. His tears slow and come to a stop. His head hurts and his eyes feel puffy, but it's a little easier to breathe without that weight pressing on his chest.

Without a word, Sam starts placing items back in the box, and she helps him.

"I should go check on Dean again. It's time for more medicine." She stands and smoothes out the wrinkles in her pants. "There are towels in the washroom if you want to splash some cold water on your face. Then, Jerry's probably in the den watching some football game that he's all excited about. I'm sure he'd love to have company to watch it with, if you'd like."

Sam forces a half-smile. "Yeah. That sounds good. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Sam."

She runs her fingers through his hair, cups her hand around his neck, and he remembers how Jess used to do exactly the same thing.

…

Dean wakes and tries to swallow around the pound of mucus that seems to have come loose while he was sleeping, but just ends up coughing. Someone is standing over him, and in the soft light she looks like an angel. She helps him sit up and holds a glass to his lips. The cool liquid soothes his throat and quiets the cough for now.

"How are you feeling?" the angel asks gently as she produces a tissue out of nowhere.

His first instinct is just to sniffle, to suck some of that snot back where it came from, but the angel is still holding the tissue in front of his face. "It's soft," he mumbles. His own voice sounds far away.

"What's soft?"

"Tissue."

"Well, of course it is." She takes the used tissue and hands him another one. "What have you been using? Sandpaper?"

There's a witty remark somewhere along the fuzzy edges of his brain, but he doesn't reach for it.

The angel throws away a couple more tissues before peeking inside one. "Clear," she pronounces like she's jump-starting someone's heart. "That's good. That means your sinuses aren't infected."

He wants to tell her that she's crazy for looking at his snot, and she's also wrong because every cell in his body feels infected, but she smoothes her hand over his forehead before he can say a word. It makes him shiver just a little bit, and he closes his eyes, welcoming the soothing temperature change against the ache. There must be someone else in the room, because he hears a feeble moan that can't possibly have come from his lips.

"Open up, honey. Let's see how that fever's doing." He ends up coughing so much that she has to take his temperature a second time. "It's just as high as it was before," she says, running her fingers through his short hair. "You must feel awful." He almost whimpers. Almost, but not quite.

With a wave of dizziness, she helps him into an upright position. "I made you some tea," she says as she places a mug in his hands.

It's warm and heavy, and the liquid inside tastes good. Like blackberries, he thinks, though he's pretty sure he's never had a blackberry before. She gives him another dose of medicine, which he swallows with more tea. It warms him from his belly out, chasing some of his shivers away. A coughing fit takes over, and the mug is replaced with a tissue and reassuring pats on the back.

"There, there," she says. "You're all right. Just breathe, sugar."

The fit passes, and she props him up against a few pillows. His eyelids are just about to slip closed when he feels the covers pulled down and his shirt tugged off over his head. His sluggish limbs cooperate against his will. He wants his shirt on and the blankets tucked back around him, but he's just too tired to make any of that happen.

"This is gonna be a little cold," the angel says.

He coughs in response, and sure enough, there's something cold being rubbed in to his chest. It spreads from his sternum out along his ribs and up his throat. It smells like a grandma, though he's not sure why. It feels so good that he doesn't care. He's breathing easier and his cough doesn't feel so demanding.

"Does that feel good?" she asks.

"Yeah," he murmurs through shivers and teeth that are almost chattering.

"Good. Now we just gotta get that fever to break. Gotta get rid of those chills."

When she's finished, she helps him put his shirt back on; sticking his arms through the correct holes just like he used to do for Sammy. His chest and throat continue to tingle as he lies back down. The angel tucks the covers tight around his shoulders.

"I'll be right back," she says, and he closes his eyes for just a second.

When she returns, he sees through blurry vision that she has something in her hands. She lifts the covers and places it next to him. It's warm and soft, so he instinctively pulls it closer. A hot water bottle, he realizes. It stops his shivering and convinces him that he might be warm again sometime in the future.

"Better?" she asks. He means to answer her with words, but all he manages is an affirmative moan. He's about to drift off to sleep when something cold is placed across his forehead. It's a soft cloth soaked in cool water, and he feels like a girl when he wants to weep because of it.

There's a knock at the door. "How's he doing?"

Sam's voice sounds strange for some reason, but everything's so messed up right now that Dean's not sure why that particular fact registers.

"Oh, he'll be all right," Mrs. Moore responds. "He'll feel a lot better once this fever breaks. I just gave him another dose of medicine with tea, some vapor rub, and a hot water bottle. He should be able to get some more rest now." She turns her voice in Dean's direction and adjusts the washcloth on his head. "Dean, can I get you anything else?"

As much as he doesn't want to, he forces his eyes open. "No. Thank you," he says, meaning those last two words possibly more than anything else he's ever said in his life.

"You're welcome, sweetheart. I'll let you talk to Sam for a minute, but then you get some rest, okay? I bet you'll be feeling a lot better when you wake up."

"Okay," Dean whispers, fighting to keep his eyes open. He blinks a little bit too long, and suddenly Sam is next to him, giving him a once-over. In a rare moment of clarity, he realizes that he must look 27 different types of pathetic. "One word…I will kill you," he warns, though there's no threat whatsoever in his tone.

Sam chuckles. "I wouldn't dream of it, dude. You doing okay?"

"Yeah," he manages. Before his eyes close again, he notices that not only does Sam's voice sound strange, but his eyes also look bloodshot and puffy, like he's been crying. "You?"

Sam sighs long and heavy. "Yeah. I'm fine. I'm gonna go watch the game with Mr. Moore, though. You get some sleep, okay?" Sam re-folds the washcloth and places it cool side down on Dean's forehead.

"M'kay," Dean mumbles. Then he says, "Sammy?"

"Yeah."

"Mrs. Moore…I think she's a witch, or an angel, or…something."

Dean feels a gentle pat on his leg. "Don't worry, Dean. There's nothing for you to hunt here. This is just what it's like to have a family."

The room falls quiet, but Dean knows Sam hasn't left yet. "You miss Jess, huh?"

It takes a minute before a response comes. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Dean coughs. "I miss mom, too." He lets his eyes slip closed and yawns. He thinks he hears Sam say something, but maybe that's just part of his dream.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** This story is now complete. Thank you for reading. This chapter is all fluff. You have been warned.

Dean's fevered, medicated dreams leave him disoriented when he wakes up. He doesn't have time to dwell on that fact for very long because he starts coughing, and all of his attention is focused on getting air into his lungs and keeping said lungs inside his chest.

A strong hand helps him sit up, and the change in position makes it easier to breathe. A glass of water is placed at his lips, and the cool liquid puts out the fire in his throat.

"Not too fast," a voice says as the glass is pulled back slightly.

It's not Sam's voice and Dean almost panics before he focuses in on Mr. Moore's face. Jess might have had her mother's eyes, but the rest of her features came from her father. He takes a couple more slow sips and is relieved when he manages a few normal breaths in a row.

"Kathy had to volunteer at the church," Mr. Moore says as he sets the glass on the nightstand. Dean shifts so that he's sitting up under his own power, and Mr. Moore's hands drop back to his sides. "She volunteers every Sunday night, so they rely on her, but I told her we had things under control here. How are you feeling?"

"Hot," Dean answers in his rough voice, realizing it's true as he says it. He pushes off layers of blankets and tugs at the shirt that's plastered to his body with sweat.

"That's good. It means your fever broke. Do you want to get cleaned up? It might make you feel better. I'm no genius when it comes to laundry, but I think I can handle washing those clothes. You can wear something of mine in the meantime."

His hesitation passes quickly, overshadowed by his need to use the bathroom and wash some of the sweat from his body. The sheets around him are soaked too, he realizes.

Mr. Moore doesn't wait for a response, and instead opens a closet to pull out a couple of fluffy white towels and washcloths. "Your brother fell asleep in the middle of the game," he says as he moves around the room. "Right in the middle of the second quarter. He's absolutely conked out. Must need the rest."

Dean says nothing, knowing it's true.

The older man disappears for a minute, returning with a few layers of clothing that he places next to the towels. "Bathroom's right there," he says, nodding to a door. "There's soap and shampoo and plenty of hot water. Just don't overheat yourself too much. Don't want your fever going back up again. Can I get you anything else?"

"Thank you," Dean says in lieu of answering the question.

Mr. Moore smiles and claps Dean gently on the shoulder. "You're welcome. Just leave those clothes outside the door. I'll start a load of laundry."

Dean is grateful he's alone when he pulls himself out of bed and feels like a newborn colt for the first few steps. By the time he reaches the hall he's doing better, and he can hear sounds of a televised football game floating from another room.

The shower is exactly what he needs; easing some of his aches and making him feel something close to human again. The clothes are a little big, but he manages by folding and rolling around the edges. He neatly stacks his used towel and washcloth, and he's not surprised when he opens the door to find that his dirty clothes are gone.

He bypasses the bedroom where he's been sleeping and follows the sound of the television to a cozy living room. His eyes immediately fall on Sam, who's stretched out in a plush recliner, sound asleep, half-empty bottle of beer near his hand. It's a good sight.

"Hey there," Mr. Moore says, standing. "Got everything you need?"

"Yeah, thank you." He clears away some of the hoarseness from his voice. "I was just going to hang out in here until Sam wakes up, if that's okay. We should get going after that."

"Well, you're more than welcome to hang out with me," Mr. Moore responds, pausing to place a rough palm on Dean's forehead, "but you've still got something of a fever, and I don't think you two should be going much of anywhere tonight. Come on," he says, taking Dean's shoulder and gently guiding him back towards the bedroom. "Kathy will have my head if she gets home and you're not in bed, and you don't want to be responsible for that, now do you?"

Dean's confused, but doesn't put up much of a fight. In the bedroom, the sheets have been changed to another soft, dry set, and he suddenly feels a lot more tired than he did a few minutes ago.

"I made some soup while you were in the shower," Mr. Moore says as Dean gets settled. "I'm not a cook, but I can open a can with the best of them. Think you can eat? I'll be right back," he says without waiting for a response.

He coughs a few times and is happy to see a fresh glass of water on the nightstand. Mr. Moore returns a few minutes later with a couple of items on a tray, and Dean thought things like that only happened on TV or in the movies.

"Chicken noodle," Mr. Moore says as he helps Dean get situated against a few pillows. "Hope that's okay. Oh, and that," he says, motioning to a slightly steaming mug, "is a little cold remedy of my own. Hot water, lemon, honey, and a little whiskey. You seem like the kind of man who can appreciate the healing powers of a hot toddy.

Dean chuckles softly. "You bet."

"Cheers," Mr. Moore says, holding his bottle to clink with the mug.

Any remaining awkwardness Dean feels disappears with that first sip, and who knew that contentedness and sickness could go hand in hand?

They chat for a little while about sports and cars, and Dean's surprised how easily the conversation flows. Before he knows it, the mug is empty and there's just a small amount of broth left in the bowl. There's a noise from somewhere down the hall, and Mr. Moore checks his watch.

"That'll be Kathy," he says. Sure enough, she appears at the door just seconds later.

"Hey boys," she says like it's the most natural thing in the world. "I'm so glad to see that Sam's getting some rest. And look at you," she says to Dean. "Looks like you're feeling a bit better. Oh, good, you ate something, too."

"His fever broke," Mr. Moore adds as his wife slips an arm around his waist. "He got cleaned up and changed, and we've just been shootin' the breeze while he ate a little soup."

"And a hot toddy too, I see," she says with a smirk, motioning to the mug. "You men," she teases, rolling her eyes.

"Can't argue with what works, honey," Mr. Moore says.

"Yeah, yeah. Here," she hands him the tray. "You clean this up and get back to your game. I'll take over from here."

"Yes, dear. Get some rest, kiddo," he says on the way out.

"I will. Thank you."

Mrs. Moore sits on the edge of the bed, a soft smile visible in her eyes. She smoothes her hand over his forehead, cheeks, and the back of his neck. It feels a little bit like heaven.

"Now, how are you feeling, sugar? You're still warm, but a lot better than before."

"I feel better," he says honestly.

She smiles. "Yeah. Good. You're gonna be just fine. Want some of this for your cough and throat?" She holds up the small tub of whatever she rubbed on his chest before.

"Yes," he says, not hesitating to pull off the shirt. "Please," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

Mrs. Moore hums while she rubs the gel into his chest, a song Dean doesn't recognize. His eyelids grow heavy, and he thinks he dozes off for a second. When he wakes again, it's only so that she can help him slide down off the pillows into a horizontal position. He rolls onto his side facing her, and she tucks the blankets around him.

"Need anything, honey?" she asks, running fingers through his short hair and rubbing his back through the blankets.

"No," he mumbles. He wants to say thank you, but that would take more energy than he has at the moment.

"Sleep well," she says, and he drifts into a heavy, deep sleep.

….

When Sam wakes the next morning, it's already light in the room. He stretches on the chair. The Moores had tried to get him to sleep in an extra bed, Jess's old room, but he was comfortable right where he was, with the framed picture of her on one side; the box of her things on the other. It was the best night's sleep he'd had in as long as he could remember.

He stands and stretches again, enjoying the feeling of relaxed, limber muscles. He can hear murmured voices and the sounds of cooking in the kitchen. Something smells amazing, and his stomach growls.

"Good morning," he says as he walks into the sunny room. He's pleasantly surprised to see not only both of the Moores, but also his brother sitting at the table. Dean's clothes look clean and wrinkle-free, the glassy fever in his eyes is gone, and it looks like he's breathing normally with a cup of coffee in his hands.

"Good morning, Sam," Mrs. Moore says with a bright smile.

"Morning," Mr. Moore adds. "Did you sleep well?"

"Definitely," Sam responds, and even that is an understatement.

"Have a seat," Mrs. Moore nods towards the empty chair next to Dean. The table's already set for breakfast. "Can I get you some coffee?"

"Yes please." He claps his brother on both shoulders as he walks past. "Good to see you up and around man. How are you feeling?"

"Much better," Dean says, and though he doesn't sound 100 percent back to normal, it's also obvious that he's telling the truth.

"His fever's down," Mrs. Moore explains. She places a mug in front of Sam. "I think he's on the mend."

"Good," he responds, taking a tentative sip.

"I didn't know what you boys would want for breakfast, so…"

"So she made everything," Mr. Moore interrupts, chuckling.

Mrs. Moore scoffs and rolls her eyes at her husband, though the statement is true. There's eggs and bacon, sausage, hash browns, toast, and pancakes, all in plentiful quantities. Sam comments that it's like a small restaurant.

Conversation flows easily as they eat, and even Dean seems to have a good appetite. When they're finished, Sam leans back in his chair and pats his stomach. "I guess I don't have to worry about my jeans being too loose for a little while," he says, and he can tell Mrs. Moore takes it as the compliment he means.

"Can we clean up?" Dean offers, his plate empty.

"Nah," Mrs. Moore responds. "I've got all day to do that. Don't you worry about it."

The brothers exchange a glance, and it's obvious that they're both on the same page.

"Okay," Sam says. "Well, we should probably get going."

"Are you sure?" Mr. Moore says. "You're welcome to stay for as long as you'd like."

Though the offer is put out there, it seems everyone in the room knows it won't be accepted. There's almost something in the air that registers it's time for the boys to be on their way.

"No, thank you," Sam responds. "We appreciate you letting us stay, but we really need to get back to business." Even as he says the words, they sting a little bit.

They move to the front door where the box of Jess's things is waiting.

"Well, next time you boys are in the area, please stop in and say hello, okay?" Mrs. Moore says, hugging Sam and gently tugging her fingers through the long hair at the back of his neck.

"Yeah. Don't be strangers," Mr. Moore adds. He shakes Dean's hand, then pulls him in for a hug instead.

"We won't," Dean promises. "Thank you so much for taking care of me," he says as Mrs. Moore takes her turn giving him a hug.

Sam smiles as he sees her palming Dean's forehead and neck, one last check for a fever. He must pass inspection because she lets him go. "Thank you again, Mr. Moore."

"It was really good to see you," he responds with a pat on the back. "Come back anytime."

They exchange their goodbyes, and within a few moments Sam and Dean are back in the Impala. Dean's obviously doing better, but he still doesn't put up too much of a fight when Sam offers to drive. They're back on the road, and even though it's only been 24 hours, a lot has changed.

Dean breaks the silence as they enter the highway. "So. That's what we've been missing all these years, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam says, and it ends up coming out more like a sigh than he intended. A picture of Jess flashes through his mind. "It comes with a price, though."

"Yeah," Dean nods, seeming to understand completely.

Sam clears his throat a few minutes later. "You want to go talk to that officer today?"

"Sure." The tone of Dean's voice is agreeable, but definitely not overly-enthusiastic. It means it's back to business as usual.

They pass a sign that says, "Thank you for visiting Palo Alto. Come back soon!"

And they keep driving.


End file.
